


Calcaneum

by grizzly_bear_bane



Series: Cigar Box [10]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Coming of Age, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, M/M, Redemption, Referenced Underage Prostitution, References to Underage Drug Addiction, Self-Harm, Soulmates, Toxic Environments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A john stalks Arthur and follows him to the abandoned warehouse where he and Eames are squatting and wrecks havoc. </p><p>It’s up to Arthur to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calcaneum

++

+

 

Arthur’s palms bleed as he balls his fist tighter, grounded by the pain. His bare feet are sore and burning from the hot pavement, but still he walks down the dirty abandoned street, gravel and construction debris be damned.

He walks faster past tall grass and bald patches of land where warehouses and factories have been torn down years before. He wants to look behind him, but the terror he feels deep in his bones keeps him going. If he steals a glance back and the stalker is behind him, he’ll panic even more, but even if he's alone, he’ll still see the warehouse, where he and Eames have been living, where Eames is still sitting on that floor, clinging to life.

He has no idea when or where he lost the flip-flops Eames stole for him. In the summer sun, he's hurting, he's tired, and he wants to sit on the side of the road and die, but he has to get to Yusuf.

His hands shake as he takes a left. He clutches at his shirt, twisting it to calm down. The Ninja Turtles on the lower half of his shirt are covered in dirt from the afternoon walk he and Eames had shared. To think that the day had begun so wonderfully. Eames had taken him to the docks a few blocks from the warehouse. He had finally stopped being mad at Arthur and Arthur was learning to trust Eames again, to not be afraid of the man’s anger. They’d collected pebbles from the lapping waves of the river and held hands, shared a joint and got their feet wet. It had be something of a dream, turned into a nightmare.

Arthur twists his shirt tighter in his hands, biting back tears. He refuses to lose control and cry. He's too big for tears now. He has to stay focused. He can feel Eames’ blood wet his hands as he squeezes his t-shirt.

He stops walking, snapping out of his trance, looking down at himself. There's a spot soaked with Eames’ blood on the front of his shirt. It spotted his shorts, his scraped knees. Arthur picks up the pace, his lip between his teeth, his breath labored, chest tight.

They’d returned from their outing at the river, intent to sleep the rest of the day away, their stomachs growling, hungry.

The man had been waiting for them, or more specifically, he’d been waiting for Arthur and hadn’t expected Eames.

Perhaps he’d been following Arthur for months now, who knows. He’s fucked Arthur at least a dozen times, twenty dollars and a condom ready in his car every time, twice, some times three days a week, twice a _day_ , on the edge of the Financial District where Arthur works the blocks after dark. He hadn’t been a regular in at least a year, not since Arthur stopped taking johns on the other side of town behind the pubs. Arthur hadn’t given the man a second thought in those days, but once he’d found Arthur, and kept finding him over and over, it had become a hassle, to say the least, to work a block the man wouldn’t find him on.

But he had found Arthur’s ‘home’ now. He had been crouched over Arthur and Eames’ belongings, waiting.

Arthur hisses, stepping on a rock but still he hurries, wiping sweat from his face. He cuts across more grass and dirt, mindful to look for broken glass or snakes. He’s nearly running when he looks up and sees the construction site where the city’s tearing down another abandoned building.

The look of triumph that had been on the man’s face when he’d seen Arthur carrying pebbles in his thin sweater, and then seeing Eames follow him, it had been indescribable. And his anger in the face of Eames’, realizing at once that Eames wasn’t just some other john by the way Arthur dropped the pebbles and clutched at Eames’ shirt, it was like seeing the devil manifest itself right before Arthur’s eyes.

Eames had hesitated, but the man hadn’t. The moment Eames had stepped forward and raised his hand, the man had pulled out a gun, aiming for Arthur, pulling the trigger and hitting Eames when he’d turned around to protect him.

Always for Arthur, never for himself. He’d shielded Arthur. Arthur remembers being afraid to hold Eames’ gun in his hands when the pastor had trapped him in his car, but he had been numb when he took Eames’ gun and fired as Eames collapsed on top of him, no idea if his shot had missed or not as the man fled.

Arthur's feet slow as he looks around, his heart breaking.

He and Eames had past this building on their way back from the river. Sure enough, in front of him is the pier and behind him, down the road, he can see the tall, shining skyscrapers like a cluster of giant tin cans, a parking garage, and beyond that, the boardwalk.

He’s lost.

A sob breaks past his lips and then another. His eyes sting. 

“Oh my god,” he sobs, his voice raw. “Oh my god, oh my god, no. No, no. no. Arthur, please,” he tells himself, on his knees, gritting through his panic attack. “Please, Arthur, come on. You can do this. Get it together. Please.”

From the warehouse to Yusuf’s place is only a ten minute walk, but from here? He’ll have to backtrack and that could be an extra ten, maybe twenty minutes. Minutes that Eames doesn’t have. It’s impossible.

“Baby,” Eames had gritted out, “are you okay? That was a damn good shot, kitty cat.”

Arthur had paled at the blood, cradling Eames close.

“Listen. Arthur look at me. I need you to focus. Come on, baby, I’m fine. Breathe.”

A part of him had hoped that if he could just cover the blood with his hands it would go away. “You’re not. Eames, this is not okay. Oh my god.”

“Hey, I’ve had worse, yeah?” He’d winced, trying to sit up, to put on a brave face for Arthur. “I need you to feel for a bullet. Can you do that for me?”

“No!”

“Arthur, don’t argue with me, do it.”

He’d felt blood and muscle and a splintered rib that nearly turned his stomach upside down as Eames groaned in agony. “I’m so sorry, Eames. I’m sorry.”

Eames’ teeth were red when he grimaced, his eyes wet. “Give me my sweater. No, Arthur, not yours, baby, you'll need yours.”

Arthur hadn’t cared. The middle of his sweater was already soaked through when he stripped out of it and helped Eames press it to his ribs.

“Go get Yusuf—I don’t want to argue with you, Arthur, just get out of here and bring him here, okay? You can do this… you can do this for me.” He’d touched Arthur’s face, his lip. “You can do it. Everything’s going to be fine, baby, trust me. Just hurry.”

There’s blood on Arthur’s cheek and his lips where Eames kissed him. He digs his hands into the hot gravel, a scream of frustration pushing out of his chest, making him shake. “Please, Arthur,” he begs himself. He sits up, his nails digging in his palms again. “You can do this. Please.”

He runs, closing his eyes when the warehouse comes back into view, refusing to see it.

Finally he hits the right street. He runs faster, coming up on the growing clusters of redeveloped buildings and the first busy street. He nearly runs right over a pile of shattered glass from a car wreck that the city won’t bother to clean up from the sidewalk. The asphalt on the road is even hotter under the sun than the sidewalk, but he’ll take heat over cut feet any day.

He almost gets hit by a van and an SUV as he races across traffic, getting closer and closer to the apartment complex. Arthur’s exhausted by the time he’s weaved through the second intersection, across the highway leading to the overpasses and reached the grass and trees on the outskirts of the complex.

As he races through the parking lot and up the stairs to the third floor, he’s hit with a new wave of panic. What if Yusuf’s not there? What then?

He wants to break down again. He can feel it welling up in his chest as he reaches Yusuf’s floor.

The smell hits Arthur once he's reached the top stairwell. He’s never noticed it before, but now it suffocates him. Mildew, weed and cigarette smoke, and something like stale vomit and urine, thanks to junkies Yusuf allows to crash in the hallway near his door. Arthur’s brain zeroes in on the faint, sweet scent of powdered heroin and Nash’s chemicals at the end of the hall.

The few junkies lying in the hall smile at him, happy to see him again, oblivious in their intoxication or perhaps just unphased by the blood on his person.

Arthur bangs on the door. As the seconds pass by, his urge to cry is near boiling point.

At long last, Yusuf’s girlfriend answers. “Arthur? _Jesus Christ_ …”

“You said Arthur?” he hears Yusuf shout. “Do _not_ let him in. Shut the door, Ariadne.”

“No, please.” Arthur dashes past her to the kitchen. 

Yusuf stomps from the bedroom, no doubt intent to drag Arthur out if he has to. It fills Arthur with misery seeing Yusuf so angry. Eames and Yusuf haven’t spoken in months and it's mostly Arthur's fault, Arthur thinks, just like Eames and Arthur having to squat in a collapsing warehouse, or why Eames is dying right now. 

Yusuf stops short, seeing Arthur trembling, the bottom of his feet black, his clothes bloodstained, his eyes wide, spooked.

“Please,” Arthur says, holding out his hands. “I know you don't want me here, but—” He swallows the lump in his throat. “He shot him," he squeaks out. "He shot Eames. He shot Eames.”

Yusuf’s face goes blank. “Arthur, where is Eames?”

Arthur points in the direction of the river. He sways on his feet.

Arthur doesn’t realize that he’s on the floor until Ariadne crouches over him, her bottle of water pressed to his lips as Yusuf hurries to gather supplies into a backpack.

“It’s okay, Arthur. It’ll be okay.” She rubs his shoulders and back, sitting on the floor with him, but she startles back a little when her hand stumbles over one of the ticks or fleabites on Arthur’s leg. She quietly puts distance between them, rubbing her hands on her jeans.

They’re in the car a moment later. Arthur’s digging his nails into his palms again as Yusuf guns it to the warehouse. He wishes he could have stayed at the apartment. He’s useless as soon he sees Eames slumped on the floor, the sweater nearly soaked through.

“Eames?” Yusuf pats his face until Eames wakes up. He carefully pulls the sweater back, unleashing a new wave of blood before he checks his pulse.

Eames blinks at him for a moment. His voice is rough, low when he speaks. “You came…”

“For you?” Yusuf rummages through his bag with Ariadne. “Of course. But you’ll hate me for this.”

Arthur curls up on Eames’ good side and watches Yusuf hand Eames a bottle of liquor that Eames downs. 

“Hey, kid. You okay?” Eames asks him, squeezing Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur shakes his head against Eames' shoulder, but Yusuf still snaps his fingers in Arthur’s face.

“Either you help, or you wait outside,” Yusuf says, hurrying to pour gasoline over a rag on the floor. He sets it on fire, ordering Ariadne to keep the fire burning to heat the knife he hands her. “We don’t have time.”

“What can I do?”

“Keep him lucid. Hold him down.”

Arthur’s eyes go wide. He’s maybe half Eames’ size. Still he nods, wrapping his arms carefully around Eames’ chest, bracing himself.

Yusuf gives no warning after cutting open Eames’ shirt. Arthur’s taken for a ride by Eames’ strength when Yusuf unscrews the cap on his medical alcohol and pours half of the bottle over Eames’ side.

Eames wraps himself around Arthur then, holding in his pain as best he can. Arthur can feel how exhausted he is, can feel the pain vibrate through Eames as Yusuf takes a clean cloth and presses down again, drying him off as much as he can. It’s hurts, being crushed by Eames, but Arthur knows that Eames is hurting more.

Eames’ squeezes him, groaning against Arthur’s neck as Yusuf feels around his ribs and past the steady trail of blood.

“Arthur, talk to him,” Yusuf mutters. “Say anything.”

The first thing that comes to mind is a string of curses when Yusuf presses so hard on the wound that Eames goes limp.

“Eames?” He pats his face the way Yusuf did. “Eames, come on. You said you were okay. Please be okay.” Eames won’t open his eyes, but he gives Arthur a little grin under Arthur’s hand.

There are two separate holes in Eames’ abdomen. The first, where the bullet went in through his back and the second where the bullet ricocheted off a rib through his side, hitting a wall. The fracture is an issue that will simply have to be dealt with some other time, because right now it won’t matter in an hour when Eames bleeds out and dies.

“It’s okay,” Arthur whispers into Eames’ hair, keeping the cloth pressed to the wound at Eames’ back as Yusuf prepares to seal the one on his side. “I’m so sorry, Eames. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Arthur has to grit through Eames’ suddenly tight grip and the scream he unleashes on Arthur’s shoulder once Yusuf begins to cauterize the wound. Again, Arthur reminds himself that enduring Eames’ pain with him, that having Eames’ teeth in his shoulder, is better than letting Eames grind his teeth as he struggles under Yusuf’s hot knife.

Eames shivers violently now as the knife goes back over the fire to heat again.

He tries to rub Eames’ back, rocking him, not sure if he does it to soothe Eames or to comfort himself, but he can’t care now. The knife is out of the fire again.

Eames fights his way flat on the concrete floor. Arthur’s leg is scraped from knee to hip, Ariadne’s arms wrapped around Eames’ legs don’t hold up well on the rough floor either, but still they ride out each wave of struggle with Eames.

Yusuf rolls them until Eames is almost on top of Arthur once the exit wound is sealed. The process is repeated.  

Eames’ screams tear through Arthur’s heart, the man's tears wetting the collar of Arthur’s t-shirt. Arthur holds him as tight as he can, whispering his encouragements. They are almost there. It feels as though Eames’ pain will never end, but Arthur keeps promising, keeps hoping that this will end soon.

It does. Eames feels so lightweight in Arthur’s arms as he helps Yusuf carry him to the car. Eames is barely coherent at this point, but his grip on Arthur never wavers until Yusuf separates them.

Yusuf points his chin back at the door. “Go get his things.”

Arthur looks from him to Eames before doing what he’s been told. He swallows the dread back down. Once Eames is safe at Yusuf’s place, Arthur will allow himself to fall apart here, alone, but not before then. He swallows again.

Yusuf and Ariadne are arguing in hushed tones when Arthur returns with Eames’ bag. He twists the backpack straps as he prepares to hand it over. He can’t swallow this time, but it’s okay, because they’ll all be gone soon. He clutches the straps tighter, hugging the bag, his eyes stinging.

“Yusuf! Come on,” Ariadne snaps, taking the bag. “Think about what you’re doing.”

Yusuf mulls it over before he sighs. “Fine,” he says, his eyes never leaving her face. He crosses his arms. “Get your stuff, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t wait to be told twice. He hurries, sure that Yusuf will change his mind at any moment, but the car is still there once he rushes out with his own little bag.

+

 

When they get upstairs, Yusuf gives Eames a shower himself and tucks him into a bed next door to his and Ariadne’s own bedroom with a bottle of heavy pain pills and a bottle of water on the bedside table.

Arthur sits with Ariadne in the kitchen after his own quick shower, in a t-shirt and shorts she's loaned him. He looks around, distracted as she rambles to him about anything, from the city’s impending bankruptcy or government corruption, to the many options for treating head lice, or fleas, or how to apply for dental care for his aching wisdom teeth. He’s missed this place. Yusuf’s apartment is night and day to the mess and chaos out in the hall and on the other floors. It’s spotless, the squatters neat and quiet that live within these rooms as they spend every last penny they have on Yusuf’s drugs. 

“So,” she says after a while, watching Arthur stare at the table, “today was a pretty scary one, huh?” When he nods, she smiles softly. “But he’ll be fine. You’ll see. Eames’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

Arthur’s always liked Ariadne. She reminds him of his aunt; younger than most but old enough to know when and how to care of others.

She rubs the back of Arthur’s hands. In an light voice, she asks, “You wanna watch tv? We just got cable last month. We could see if any cartoons are on, or… I could fix you something? I'm pretty starved myself." She grimaces at her word choice. "There’s cereal… or a pizza I can put in the oven? Or cookies? Juice? Maybe a grilled cheese?”

“Do you have a cigarette? I really need one.”

She sits back, a little surprised, making Arthur wonder how someone as straight-laced as Ariadne ended up here.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Old enough,” he says to the table.

She’s prepared to argue for a second, reading him with her eyes. She grabs Yusuf’s jacket from the chair beside her and rifles in the pocket until she finds his smokes and hands Arthur one.

“There’s a box of matches in one of these drawers,” is all she says before she gets up from the table and disappears into the bedroom. 

Arthur makes sure to take Yusuf’s keys before he heads outside. He smokes under the stairs on the bottom floor.

He wants the cigarette to last but knows it won’t with how hard he's hitting it. He’s shaking again. It’s not from fear now, just exhaustion. Arthur’s tired, so, so fucking tired. And he doesn’t want to go upstairs, no, he wants to walk. He wants his feet to carry him away somewhere far, somewhere…where he can no longer hurt Eames.

Maybe Eames will make Arthur do just that, tomorrow or in a few days when he’s more himself again. Eames’ll realize it too, that Arthur’s too much trouble. So why wait? Why not leave now and spare them both?

He drags harder on the cigarette. It was never Eames, not even at his worst when he’d been a butterfly’s breath away from losing his temper and pummeling Arthur into nothing. No, it’s Arthur, he tells himself. It’s always been Arthur. He's toxic. After all, Eames had had an empire and a loyal partner for years, and then Arthur showed up and ran it into the ground. Eames had had Yusuf, and thanks to Arthur and his insistence of second chances with Nash, Eames had almost lost Yusuf too. Then there was Mal, and now this.

Maybe that pastor had been right about him. Maybe Arthur really was the devil’s whore. There wasn’t anything good inside him. Just pain and bad luck, both contagious, like a virus. Hell, maybe even his parents had been happy before he was born. He wouldn’t put anything past it, at this point.

He should have let Eames walk away. In the hospital, years before all this, when Eames had given him reason after reason to stay in foster care, away from the streets, Arthur should have listened. He shouldn’t have ever ran away at all, because in Arthur's mind now, ten lifetimes with David and a thousand more being returned to him or placed with some new monster would have been far better than ruining Eames’ life the way that he had.

Arthur can’t shake his guilt. It blinds him, shuts off his ability to think clearly.

A familiar urge wells up in his stomach. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time. It’s almost comforting. He wants to find Nash and one of his little bag or one of Nash’s pills, _something_ so he can forget today, forget everything and just float, higher and higher until he reaches the sun and burns away.

He’s shaking so much, he can barely get the cigarette to his lips, his teeth chattering. He looks at it, what little that’s left pinched between his fingers. He needs something stronger.

Arthur reaches for his shorts, pulling up one of its leg openings until the soft junction of inner thigh and groin met. His breath catches and he groans through the pain as he jabs the butt of his cigarette into his delicate skin. He breathes through it, feeling nauseous and dizzy, his heart beating faster, but the pain is a distraction enough from his craving, for now.

He wipes off the ash and tosses the smoking butt out into the parking out. He stares up at the sky until his eyes don’t sting anymore.

Eames is asleep, propped on his good side with the help of pillows and blankets when Arthur slips into the room.

He’s unconscious, but Arthur still takes his time easing further onto the bed to lie beside him.

Arthur watches him sleep for a moment, feeling his heart drop as Eames inhales one labored breath after another.

It’s too much, seeing Eames like this. Arthur can’t hold back anymore. He reaches across the space between them, holding Eames’ hand tight as he covers his face with his arm and cries, not making a sound.

++

+

 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> For more drabble requests, questions, inspiration pics, and updates for this fic series, go to grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com/


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